proofs of original sin.
Unfortunately, though Mr. Duke was not burdened with a family, his yearly
expenditure was apt considerably to exceed his income; and the unpleasant
circumstances resulting from this, together with heavy meat-breakfasts,
may probably have contributed to his desponding views of the world
generally.

Next to him is seated Mr. Furness, a tall young man, with blond hair and
whiskers, who was plucked at Cambridge entirely owing to his genius; at
least I know that he soon afterwards published a volume of poems, which
were considered remarkably beautiful by many young ladies of his
acquaintance. Mr. Furness preached his own sermons, as any one of
tolerable critical acumen might have certified by comparing them with his
poems: in both, there was an exuberance of metaphor and simile entirely
original, and not in the least borrowed from any resemblance in the
things compared.

On Mr. Furness's left you see Mr. Pugh, another young curate, of much
less marked characteristics. He had not published any poems; he had not
even been plucked; he had neat black whiskers and a pale complexion; read
prayers and a sermon twice every Sunday, and might be seen any day
sallying forth on his parochial duties in a white tie, a well-brushed
hat, a perfect suit of black, and well-polished boots--an equipment which
he probably supposed hieroglyphically to represent the spirit of
Christianity to the parishioners of Whittlecombe.

Mr. Pugh's _vis-a-vis_ is the Rev. Martin Cleves, a man about forty
--middle-sized, broad-shouldered, with a negligently-tied cravat, large
irregular features, and a large head, thickly covered with lanky brown
hair. To a superficial glance, Mr. Cleves is the plainest and least
clerical-looking of the party; yet, strange to say, _there_ is the true
parish priest, the pastor beloved, consulted, relied on by his flock; a
clergyman who is not associated with the undertaker, but thought of as
the surest helper under a difficulty, as a monitor who is encouraging
rather than severe. Mr. Cleves has the wonderful art of preaching sermons
which the wheelwright and the blacksmith can understand; not because he
talks condescending twaddle, but because he can call a spade a spade, and
knows how to disencumber ideas of their wordy frippery. Look at him more
attentively, and you will see that his face is a very interesting one
--that there is a great deal of humour and feeling playing in his grey
eyes, and about